


on the fortune of fools

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abel Gideon being a canon nuisance, Also to Hannibal's chagrin, Canon-level disturbing imagery and cannibalism, Copycat Killer, Even if he doesn’t want to Know, Frederick Chilton PTA organizer extraordinaire, Future Romantic Relationship, Gen, Hannibal Is A Psychiatrist, Hannibal has A Dog, Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, Kid Fic, Kid OCs - Freeform, M/M, Made it past the strict screening procedures, Memory Palace, Mpreg, Mutual irritation with a happy ending, Past established Relationship, Rating will change, To Hannibal's chagrin, Twin AU, Ummm the twins freak their parents out a lot, Warnings Will Change, Will Graham Knows, Will is an FBI agent, Will is happy to be here and un-manipulated, for once, shifting pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: “My God, baby—It’s really you, I wasn’t seeing things,” the man says, and Michael instinctively scoots back, further away from a stranger he doesn’t know who’s saying things that don’t make sense.“Daddy?” the other boy asks, and Michael looks at him again, this twin, and thinks, Oh.“Michael,” the man breathes, sounding like he’s going to cry. “Does he still call you that?”“Y-Yeah, my name’s Michael, but who are you?”Taking a deep breath, the man in flannel says, “I’m your dad, honey.”“Daddy?” Isaac says, looking between the boy on the counter and his dad. “Y-You can’t be his dad, you’re my dad!”Separated at birth, identical twins Michael Lecter and Isaac Graham never formally meet until a chance encounter at a twenty-four-hour restaurant changes everything.Or: Fate and circumstance parent-trap Michael and Isaac’s two dads.





	1. Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who read my other kid fic "visitation rights", I introduced my OC Isaac there, but the Isaac of this fic is a different iteration (although he still lives with Will as his primary parent at the beginning). This universe is much fluffier than visitation rights. Enjoy!

Hannibal stares blankly at the restaurant’s laminated menu, trying to ignore the stray smear of raspberry frosting currently sticking to the tip of his index finger. _Twenty-four-hour breakfast offered here_ , the menu cheerfully declares, _buy a single entrée and get a cup of coffee, on us!_

 _How low you have sunk_ , he thinks to himself, humming along to an unfortunately profane rap song blaring over the restaurant’s tinny sound system, just to stay awake.

“What are you gonna get, Daddy?” Michael asks eagerly, nearly clambering over the table to catch his eye, and he gently puts a hand on his son’s shoulder to indicate that he should sit down instead.

“A free cup of coffee,” he says, just as their waitress—a teenager popping an obnoxiously large wad of bubblegum—approaches, not even a semblance of formality in her posture or manner.

“What’ll it be?” she asks, and Michael is off and running not a moment later, fingertip skimming over each point of interest on the menu as he rattles off his heart’s desire.

“Short stack—uh, no, pancake sandwich, large chocolate milkshake, a Pepsi, and—.”

“That the adult sized pancake sandwich, or the kid’s?” the waitress asks, through a particularly audible chew.

“Children’s, and the milkshake will be a small. No soda,” Hannibal says, correcting the order and repressing a frustrated grimace.

“And whaddaya _you_ want?” the girl says, gesturing to him with her order pad. Despite the garish makeup concealing most of her face, he notices that her irises are an attractive shade of green. Too risky to save, of course, but charming to look at, provided there was not a face with the capability to speak attached to them.

“Three-egg omelet, and a cup of coffee, black.”

“Your lucky day, honey,” she drawls. “Get it with a meal and first cup’s always free.” Scooping up their menus without another word, she takes her time getting back to the kitchen to place the ticket, stopping to talk to a similarly attired fellow server near the hostess’s station.

“But what if I get brain freeze and I need something else to drink,” Michael protests, and Hannibal taps on the glass of water in front of him.

“Fine,” Michael huffs, callous in the way that children are. Most young people went through a phase of extreme self-centeredness during early childhood, lacking the capacity to think the universe revolved around anything save themselves, and he could only hope that Michael outgrew his current attitude sometime soon.

At the moment, his son cares nothing at all that Hannibal has accommodated his wants and driven them here despite having just arrived home from a patient emergency that had lasted the good part of two days. Hannibal does not much believe in fate or circumstance when entropy, such as it was, abounded in the universe, but even he has to admit that there was some great cosmic symmetry in how his own intentions and expectations in raising Michael had gone so blindingly awry.

All his profession had taught him about proper childcare and child-rearing could not have prepared him for the reality of being a single parent.

Interrupting his train of thought, the waitress returns with their plates (half-cold, Hannibal notices with a muted disgust, though Michael does not seem to notice or care, digging into the food with appropriate gusto).

They eat mostly in silence, though towards the end of the meal, Michael spends five minutes—seemingly without taking a single breath in pause—effusing the benefits of Hannibal purchasing the newest line of limited-edition Power Rangers for his birthday next month. Having already learned the dangers of being misinterpreted as giving his approval by nodding in polite acknowledgment, Hannibal keeps his expression neutral and chokes down a three-egg omelet that is more likely made of two-and-a-half-cups of egg substitute.

“Daddy, I gotta pee,” Michael complains, after he does not receive the response that he wants on the Power Rangers issue.

“Which is why I told you not to get the Pepsi, or the large milkshake,” he points out, and Michael pouts.

“But I got the small and drank water like you said, and now I have to peeeee.”

Hannibal does not sigh, but he comes very close.

“Go to the restroom, and I will pay the bill,” he says, oddly grateful that they have been here enough times for him to know that the facilities here contain child-friendly items like stepstools so that he does not have to tolerate the overbearing scent of Hawaiian Breeze air freshener and urinal cake while his son attempts to pick up where he left off about the Power Rangers.

Michael makes a show of dragging his feet and huffing to himself before Hannibal collects their things and heads towards the register with their bill in hand, yet another awful song—pop music, this time—pounding its way into his skull.

 

 

 

“Daddy, I gotta go pee,” Isaac whispers, fidgeting in his seat, and Will raises a brow.

“No one’s keepin’ you from going, baby,” he says. “But next time, maybe we won’t get a refill on the soda, huh?”

“Okay, Daddy,” Isaac mumbles, sprinting towards the glowing sign that points the way to the men’s room.

Moving to the far end of the booth to watch that Isaac actually gets to his intended destination—years as a cop had told him to always remain vigilant where his kid was concerned, but not _over_ protective—he inadvertently gets a better view of the cash register while looking to the nearby restrooms, eyes widening at the broad-shouldered silhouette of the man currently paying at the counter.

 _Can’t be, not in a place like this_ , Will thinks frantically, grabbing his jacket and Isaac’s, putting thirty down on the table and beelining it for the men’s room.

Thank God this place had a side door. He could grab Isaac and go without being seen.

At least, that was the plan.

 

 

 

Michael is washing his hands when the restroom door slides open with a loud creak on rusty hinges, and he comes face to face with another boy, whose face is a mirror of his own.

“What the heck,” the other boy says, and Michael starts to realize that while they look similar—the same dark hair and dark eyes; he even recognizes the same birthmark on the corner of the other boy’s nose—they’re dressed differently, and the boy caught standing in the doorway has a slight accent, as if he’s from the South.

“Who are you?” Michael asks, quickly shutting off the water at the sink and nearly stumbling down the stepstool he’s standing on before a pair of unfamiliar hands scoops him up and deposits him safely onto the counter.

The hands belong to a curly haired man in a flannel shirt, who’s staring at him intensely, like he’s studying a complicated painting or closely watching a sunset. Michael stares back.

“My God, baby—It’s really you, I wasn’t seeing things,” the man says, and Michael instinctively scoots back, further away from a stranger he doesn’t know who’s saying things that don’t make sense.

“Daddy?” the other boy asks, and Michael looks at him again, this twin, and thinks, _Oh_.

“Michael,” the man breathes, sounding like he’s going to cry. “Does he still call you that?”

“Y-Yeah, my name’s Michael, but who are you?”

Taking a deep breath, the man in flannel says, “I’m your dad, honey.”

 

 

 

“ _Daddy_?” Isaac says, looking between the boy on the counter and his dad. “Y-You can’t be his dad, you’re _my_ dad!”

“I—,” Will starts, but doesn’t get much further than that, mouth opening and closing without words before he says, “Let’s get Michael back to his father, okay?”

“Daddy, how do you know his name?” Isaac asks, frowning at Michael as Will takes his hand, then Isaac’s own.

“That’s easy. We go way back, baby,” Will says, and leads them back out into the restaurant on shaky legs.

 

 

 

Hannibal is returning his credit card to his wallet when he scents that unique, haunting smell, accompanied by the requisite aromas of cheap shaving lotion and dog fur.

Will.

He turns to find the other man nervously glaring at the floor, one son on each hand, and Hannibal is struck, for a moment, at the hidden possibility—this could have been their life, him paying for a meal as Will tended to the children—before it winks out of existence, borne away by the scowl on Will’s face.

“You shouldn’t have let him go in there alone. Be glad I was there, and not some creep,” he hisses, and Hannibal resists the urge to smile.

After these few ( _long_ ) years, Will has grown thinner, it seems. Stress (from the job? From raising Isaac on his own?) and age have made him sharper at the edges, but he’s clearly lost none of his inner drive to poke at things well known for biting back.

 _Admirable boy_ , Hannibal thinks, knowing and relishing the fact that, were he to say the words aloud, Will would take a swing at him and not stop till they were both bloody, setting a good example for their children be damned.

Of course, despite the aesthetic appeal that was his Will covered in blood, the counterproductivity of the reality was why they had agreed to separate in the first place.

“Daddy, do you know him?” Michael asks, earlier conflict with Hannibal forgotten as he rushes to his (more familiar) father’s side.

“Yes, I do,” he says. “He’s the man who gave birth to you, Michael. And Isaac as well.”

 

 

 

Oh. My. God.

 _I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna do it, finally, after all my big talk about nonviolence and putting the kids first, I’m gonna do it_ , Will thinks, clenching his fists and running tongue over teeth in preparation to bite down on whichever of Hannibal’s weak points presents itself.

(Heedless, of course, of dropping his own bombshell after he saved Michael from slipping in the bathroom, blurting out, _I’m your dad_ instead of running out of there like his ass was on fire without letting Michael get a good look at him. Hannibal was the dangerous one in this equation, not him, and he needed to focus on that rather than going over and over in his mind whether he should’ve just grabbed Isaac and pretend the boys hadn’t seen each other before he even got there.)

“Can I talk to you? In _private_ ,” he hisses at Hannibal, as Isaac and Michael gaze, wide-eyed, at each other in shock. Angling them so that he can see the kids and hopefully spring into action if anyone bolts, Will crosses his arms across his chest and grasps for the best way to say his piece without grabbing the nearest piece of cutlery and stabbing his ex with the sharp end.

“Where do you get off talking to them like that? Christ, Hannibal, you could’ve led up to it a little!”

Hannibal, hands in his coat pockets, actually freaking shrugs.

“They could see based on appearance alone that they were most likely carried by the same person. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak, it would be cruel to delay the inevitable revelation any longer. Michael has asked, over the years, about the person who carried him, and now he knows exactly who you are.”

Will groans.

“Stop psychoanalyzing for a minute and think like an actual human bei—.” He pauses, eyes drawn to an imperfection on Hannibal’s usually-impeccable clothes. “Is that ketchup on your shirt?” The Hannibal of their past lifetime wouldn’t have set foot in a place like this under pain of death. Cheap food, one or two possible health code violations, music too loud and too Top 40 to be considered ambience. Never would’ve wandered out in public with a stained shirt without noticing it and correcting the mistake.

“I apologize. I believe it’s reflexive for us to attempt to annoy one another, even when it’s unnecessary,” Hannibal says, fucking _apologizes_ , and Will has no idea what alternate universe he’s fallen into, where Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper who’d had Baltimore County living in fear the past decade, had grown a soul enough to apologize for purposely being a dick.

Maybe the Good Parenthood bug had bitten him after all. Or maybe Will was just grasping at the strings of what could’ve been.

Either way, this whole situation and the memories it brought up were both too raw to pick at right now, and the last thing he needed was more on his plate. Suddenly, the thought of an empty home with no romantic partner to come home to and a welcoming bottle of whiskey sounded absolutely fucking ideal instead of a lonely man’s desperate solace.

“Look, it was weirdly, uh, nice to see you. Nice to know even you can be a slob sometimes.” He bites down on all the questions and accusations that want to fly out of his mouth, instead settling on, “Take care, Hannibal.”

There. Cordial. Civil. Almost polite, even, which is probably why it feels like shit, and he turns quickly to look for Isaac so they can get the hell out of here, so Hannibal won’t see the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

But what the hell was he supposed to do about what happened tonight? Michael knew Will was his dad now, and Isaac could put two and two together that Hannibal was his father. It’s not like he could just say “take care” to his other kid and vanish into thin air.

Poor Michael…

Looking up toward the side exit—where both kids should’ve been standing, his heart drops as all he sees are the reflections of headlights from the lot in the glass.

“Isaac. Michael,” he breathes, and doesn’t think before rushing outside.

 

 

 

“So, that means we’re twins? Cuz if your Dad’s your dad, and my Dad’s my dad, that means—.”

“Means we’ve got two dads. That we’re twins,” Isaac shrugs, kicking at a stray bit of asphalt and watching it plop into a flooded pothole.

Michael frowns. “I know one set of twins and a set of triplets in my class at school. They’re always dressed the same, and they even bring the same food every day for lunch.”

“That’s probably something their parents make them do. You and me aren’t dressed alike.”

“I guess,” Michael shrugs, then gets an idea to test Isaac’s hypothesis. “What’s your favorite thing? Maybe it’s the same as mine. I like Power Rangers!”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t really care for action figures. I guess I don’t really have time for that stuff. Dad and I are always taking care of the dogs at home.”

“How many dogs do you _have_?” Michael asks, remembering at the last second to put his hand on Isaac’s wrist and drag him away from a car making a U-turn at the end of the lot. Daddy always said to watch out for cars and for other people when you were walking on the street.

“Uh, we have six right now. I can show you a picture, once we get to the car! Daddy paper clips them to the whatchamacallit, the visor thingy. Do you have a dog?”

“Um, yeah, we have one. Jove. He’s a Doberman, but dad says he’s a runt.”

“That’s cool. We had a Jack Russell runt once. It was mean enough to be a Doberman.”

Michael frowns. “Jove’s not mean! He—Well, he barks at the neighbors sometimes, but he’s okay other than that.”

“Okay, okay,” Isaac says, and even in the faint light from the diner, Michael can tell he’s rolling his eyes.

Isaac stops them in front of a dark-colored Volvo, and produces the keys from his jeans pocket. “Daddy always forgets the keys in weird places, so he says it’s my job to pick them up if he accidentally leaves them. We once had to call a locksmith at a National Park to unlock the car cuz he forgot to bring ‘em with us.”

Michael feels like bragging that _his_ Daddy never forgot his keys, though his story’s not as cool as Isaac’s is, because Daddy’s never even let him work the little remote that goes with the car.

Unlocking the door and climbing up into the passenger’s seat, Isaac reaches for the overhead light and hands Michael a picture of himself being almost entirely covered by a mound of multi-colored fur.

“Duke’s a mastiff, and he’s the biggest, but don’t worry, he’s not scary. You’ll see, when you come over,” Isaac says, and Michael blinks, handing back the photo.

“What? I don’t know if Daddy would say that’s okay.”

Isaac blows a raspberry, the sound echoing loudly through the parking lot. “Uh, duh he would. Why wouldn’t he? We’re twins, we have to hang out all the time.”

Michael’s brow furrows. “Well, if he really wanted us to spend time together, why did I never even know you were alive?”

Sniffing, arms hugging his knees to his chest, Isaac shrugs. “I dunno, but they gotta let us hang out now that we do know each other. What kinda terrible parent wouldn’t?”

“Isaac!” a voice calls, and Michael starts at the loud noise. “Michael!”

“Over here,” Isaac says, and rolls his eyes again. Michael starts to get the sense that they have this _I-am-annoyed_ behavior in common.

“You gotta tell me where you’re going, you can’t just disappear like that,” Will says, reaching out to clutch them both close.

“I’m okay, Daddy, geez,” Isaac says, trying to squirm out of his grip, but Michael, surprised at the contact, leans into it just a little, though he flinches when Daddy’s shadow falls over all of them, his angular face lit up like a Halloween skeleton by the orange light from the car.

“So, is Michael gonna sleep over?” Isaac asks, wasting no time, and Will swallows, biding a few seconds for a reply that won’t hurt anyone’s already fragile feelings. Running into Hannibal was a lot to process, but Will could only imagine how it was for the boys, suddenly having a brother you never knew existed stumble into your life.

“It’s late, and you both have school tomorrow,” Hannibal says, diplomatic. “I think you would be up all night if we let you have a sleep over now.”

“Yeah, but Friday’s the day after, and there’s no school after then,” Isaac points out.

“Yeah!” Michael agrees, and the two adults look at him the same way Daddy looked when he ordered that extra Pepsi in the restaurant.

“Maybe something a little less exciting for now. We were gonna go to the movies with Maya and Carter on Saturday, right, baby?” Will says, and Isaac nods eagerly.

“I was gonna, but no way am I going with them if I can go with Michael. That’s what you were gonna say, right, that I could go with Michael?”

Will sighs. “Yes, I was gonna ask Hannibal if we could all go together. How do you feel about superhero movies, Michael?”

Michael is about to open his mouth when Isaac interrupts.

“Wait. Your name’s _Hannibal_?” he says, peering up at his father, and honest as only the uninhibited can be, adds, “That’s a _really_ weird name.”

Bracing for the worst, Will finds himself grimacing through an expression that’s half-smile, half-frown as Hannibal tilts his head and replies, “I suppose it is.”

“But I like it, though,” Isaac says. “It’s cool.”

Hannibal can sense Michael’s intrigued giddiness as he puts a hand on his shoulder to lead him back to their own car, his son practically vibrating with excitement as he and Will exchange contact information.

It is not lost on him that Will studies him out of the corner of his eye the entire time he’s listing off details about the movie theater and exactly where and what time they should be expected to meet on Saturday. Probably trying to guess whether or not the exchange is a mere formality, and if Hannibal has kept tabs on his whereabouts without his knowledge.

“Have a good night, Will,” he says in farewell, the other man mumbling a noncommittal, “Yeah,” that tells Hannibal he’s off to the dreamless sleep of a temporary liquor-induced coma as soon as he’s sure Isaac’s safely asleep.

Despite the earlier excitement, Michael falls into his own dreamless stupor within ten minutes of the car ride home, failing to stir as Hannibal unbuckles him from his car seat and carries him into the house and to bed. Even with her lack of care in other areas (including feeding Michael dinner enough that he would not be begging to go to that restaurant as soon as Hannibal relieved her), the babysitter Gina had tidied up in the living room and kitchen before she went home, and he appreciates that he does not have to step on stray action figures or coloring books that usually litter the floor.

Jove, having been neglected for the past few days, takes the opportunity to curl up at his feet to take advantage of even the possibility of receiving some attention. Hannibal had painstakingly trained him out of rushing the door a few years previous, after an unfortunate incident with his latest harvest, but the pup was a needy thing at heart.

He pets at the crown of the dog’s head, amused as a sound not unlike a cat’s purr issues from deep in Jove’s throat.

Intending to watch one of the many twenty-four hour news networks for a minute and then head up to bed himself, Hannibal reaches for the remote aligned neatly on the end table, though there is a tea cup without its saucer also sitting there, full of something that smells like Irish Cream and the remains of a poorly brewed Americano.

Gina had not been so entirely diligent in her chores after all.

Struck by a contemplative whim, Hannibal wonders whether this small coincidence, this teacup in particular, will finally provide his answer. His hand hovers over the rim of the cup, thinking of pushing it to shatter onto the hardwood below. Will it gather itself back up again, if he wills it so?

He waits there in contemplation for a quarter hour, though the minutes pass in what feels like a few seconds. Unable to bring himself to tip the cup over the table ledge, he sits in still silence, allowing the muted noise of the evening to filter back in—Jove’s light panting, the low hum of the television news, the settling of the house.

 _The teacup remains whole. There is your answer, at least for now_ , he smiles to himself. Intrigued at the prospect, though his mirth soon dies as he registers the content of the latest report onscreen, its headlines stretching across the station’s bold red and white ticker tape.

Vision narrowing to a point, he reads the words moments before the news anchor recites them with a gravity they _don’t_ deserve, “A small suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of Baltimore on edge tonight, the FBI and local authorities confirm that it is likely the Chesapeake Ripper has killed again.”


	2. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick Chilton enters the picture, and lands himself on Hannibal’s Maybe-to-Eat list.
> 
> The whole family reunites for a movie on Saturday morning. After, the parents discuss the Chesapeake Ripper, and Hannibal argues that the that the killer who made the news is a copycat, not him.

Will hates that the only things that force him to pay attention to current events lately are stomach-turning announcements like “Ripper Kills For Third Time This Week”, but he’s nonetheless glued to the TV early Saturday morning at the new report, morbidly curious about the sorts of cases that he can only dream about getting involved in anymore.

Becoming an admin agent in the Baltimore field office hadn’t exactly been his ideal retirement-track job, but at least he wasn’t constantly risking his ass serving warrants while Isaac sat at home or school not knowing whether he was going to come home alive. He’d once had a very different opinion of how things were going to be after barely scraping past the final screening and into the Academy, but becoming a parent had forced him to reevaluate what was most important to him.

Thinking back on it now, he can laugh about how naïve he’d been. Thought he’d had it all figured out after being groomed for and accepted into a position in Behavioral Analysis, but of course, Crawford’s one-that-got-away had to change all that.

Using a renowned psychiatrist to catch a serial killer wasn’t exactly a novel concept, but Hannibal trying to catch _himself_ and failing miserably without attracting unwanted scrutiny was a magic trick Will to this day still didn’t understand how he pulled off.

Crawford had been demanding when he called them both into his office, explaining that he expected they work together to find Maryland’s most notorious butcher, uncaring if Will’s lack of social skills or Hannibal’s massive ego butted heads as long as the FBI got results. Little did Uncle Jack know that he’d unwittingly set up Will to become even more enamored with the person he was supposedly trying to arrest, and set off a chain of events that led to the Ripper going underground.

A body with the killer’s usual signature had shown up at the beginning of their investigation, and then, nothing. It wasn’t unexpected for the Ripper’s violent fits to dry up for months at a time, but after weeks without so much as a well-placed taunt at Jack’s intelligence, even the staunchly determined head of the BAU began to suspect that something was different.

With budget oversight committees on his back for unjustified Ripper investigation overtime, Jack’s ulcers started acting up again, and he was far too distracted to take much notice that Will had been placed on light duty because his growing belly had started to show.

Jack had always assumed that Hannibal had left consulting after they caught the Shrike because he realized how much time and effort were required to make a family work (and how it could still, in spite of every good intention, all go so horribly, horribly wrong). Maybe even gotten an intense case of cold feet after Will gave birth.

As someone accustomed to a bachelor’s lifestyle, it might’ve been reasonable in Jack’s mind that Hannibal didn’t want to live up to the consequences of his actions, no matter how ugly such a thought was about someone whose hallmark was courtesy to others, even while he was supposed to be poking around their heads.

Will had let everyone think whatever they wanted; never told anyone save Hannibal why he had tried to drive the other man away.  

_Chased him away with half of my heart in tow, because that’s all I could ever manage to give him_ , Will thinks to himself now, scrubbing a hand over his face. It’s too early to dwell on any of this, but he doesn’t have a choice because Isaac’s already up and bouncing off the walls at the prospect of seeing his twin again.

_Movie day_ , Will scoffs to himself. By the way Isaac’s acting, he probably thinks it deserves some kind of national celebration. His son had hardly spared his school friends a second thought after Will made him call their parents with a heartfelt apology for skipping out on their plans, raincheck date at the ready.

His friends’ parents were very understanding (fewer people to pay for, better for us, one had joked), and Will tried to focus on the positives that could come out of today for the boys, despite the shitshow of baggage he personally had to carry around about the gruesome headlines Hannibal had likely just made.

Because of this, he knew it wasn’t healthy to fixate on the fact that today’s movie day would also serve the indirect function of getting him and Hannibal into the same room without either of them being able to stick a knife in each other, which was half a miracle in itself (though Will wasn’t gonna make any promises, if the news report he was currently watching got any worse.)

Had Hannibal gone out and killed a third person to complete his sounder because he wanted to make a snack for their family date? Or—and the more disturbing—had he just killed someone because he was _happy_ about the way their chance meeting turned out?

The thought even crossing his mind made him shiver, but was it his imagination that the news was made a tiny bit less repulsive if he considered these reasons as the motivations behind it?

_Get your Goddamned head back on earth, Graham. It’s not romantic, or caring, or whatever twisted fucking thing_ he _thinks it could be. And stop jumping to conclusions. That victim might not even be his, for all you know._

The news reporter’s subsequent commentary snaps him back to reality, and he rolls his eyes at her not-so-subtle attempt at backtracking on the certainty of the original headline.

“…though again, the FBI stresses that there is the possibility of a potential copycat killer behind these collection of murders within the past year, its Behavioral Analysis Unit, or BAU, explaining that the proposed profiles of the Chesapeake Ripper and his potential copycat are nearly identical in nature. Despite having named no concrete suspects in the Ripper murders or what the _National Tattler_ has begun to refer to as the Copycat’s Threes, the FBI quote ‘entreats the public to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity to the national hotline’, which our station has printed in bold text on the bottom of your screen,” the reporter says, dutiful somberness in her tone. Will’s mouth flattens.

Copycat, Ripper, what was the difference? The FBI had been pushing the idea of a copycat for months, but Will was ninety-nine percent sure that if Hannibal had an imitator, the person wouldn’t have lived beyond their first cycle of kills. Definitely not long enough to have _Tattle Crime’s_ parent news agency coin a phrase in reference to them.

Was there really a copycat, or had Hannibal’s M.O. just changed in some meaningful way and been mistaken for the work of someone else?

_He had a ketchup stain on his shirt at the diner. I’d say parenthood has changed his M.O. substantially. Can’t even sneak out in the middle of the night anymore without calling a babysitter first._

“What’re you watching, Daddy?” Isaac asks, breaking into his thoughts, a curious tilt to his head at the news ticker tape’s unnecessarily graphic description of the latest crime scene. Will hurriedly switches the channel and turns the TV off.

“The news,” he says. “Boring adult stuff. You coulda stayed in your pjs a little while longer, you know. We didn’t even have breakfast yet.”

“I don’t want breakfast, I wanna see Michael!”

Will keeps his laughter light as possible, though he can’t deny the little flutter in his stomach when he thinks about seeing his baby. For good or ill, Hannibal had been Michael’s father these past years, which meant that he was going to be with them today whether Will wanted it or not.

“You sure you don’t want breakfast? I was gonna make blueberry waffles…”

“I want blueberry waffles, and I wanna see Michael!” Isaac clarifies, chasing Will into the kitchen and stealing half the berries before they ever hit the batter.

_Will it still be like this, when he realizes why we were all separated_? Will finds himself thinking, a twinge of melancholy settling in his chest as Isaac peels the last of their breakfast out of the waffle iron. He doesn’t doubt his son’s ability to remain happy in the face of potential disaster (he’d held it together remarkably well at the restaurant), but his new job is to make sure that it never comes to anything even more serious.

_But if you told him now, he’d be more accepting. If something’s normalized during childhood, it’ll remain the norm into adulthood if you keep reinforcing it. He could know what Hannibal is, and even accept him the way you were never able to. There’s no way that Michael knows yet—Hannibal kept his word there, Michael seemed just like any other normal kid—but would it be so bad to tell them both?_

Swallowing audibly, Will tries to cover his distress by racing to the cabinet and reaching for a glass, letting the sound of running water soothe him as he lingers in front of the tap. Once his cup is full, he downs half of his water in one long pull.

No. He wouldn’t ever tell Michael or Isaac what their father was, not unless he had absolutely no choice.

“Can I have a glass of water, too, Daddy?” Isaac asks, two overflowing plates stacked skillfully on his arms, and Will’s heart warms. His apprehension dissolves, at least for the moment.

Michael had been understandably shy at the restaurant, but the coincidence of their meeting had already cast its irresistible lure. If today could give him the chance to make Michael feel more comfortable around him, he would have to remain calm in the face of adversity. Pretend, for a few hours, that they were just a regular family seeing one of those mass-produced superhero movies, nothing to be concerned about here.

You couldn’t fool the Ripper into being civil without extending the same courtesy, after all.

Still caught up in what-ifs and a low-grade, reflexive anger at the latest kill on the news, Will remembers Isaac’s request for water, and mumbles a sheepish, “Sure you can, honey,” while reaching for a second cup. “Remember, you gotta help me feed all the dogs and take them out for a walk before we can even think about going to the movies.”

Isaac huffs. “But they’re all still sleeping, Daddy!”

“Because they know it’s unholy to be up at six a.m. on a Saturday morning,” Will whispers, though he knows that all the commotion from the kitchen will get them stirring soon enough.

“Silly Daddy, it’s not unholy,” Isaac says, and presents their breakfast with a flourish and heaving himself into his seat. “Come on, sit down!”

“Yessir,” Will snorts, ruffling his son’s hair.

 

 

 

A half hour before they are supposed to meet Will and Isaac at the theater, and Hannibal receives a fourth call from Frederick Chilton in as many minutes. Gritting his teeth at the caller ID and adopting the Terminally Courteous voice he uses when negotiating with troublesome insurance companies, he swipes the screen to answer and says, “Hello, Frederick.”

“Hi, Hannibal, sorry I kept getting your voicemail, but your wife’s number isn’t on file with the school.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches.

Had this been a matter of any importance, such as a request related to the important job at the BSHCI that Frederick was currently neglecting in favor of becoming PTA advisor of the year at the school that Michael and Chilton’s own son both attended, Hannibal would have answered the first time the other man called, though his repeated attempts at contacting Hannibal about _this_ PTA gathering or _that_ bake sale—after Hannibal had already politely offered monetary donations in the place of his time—were beginning to task.

Hannibal’s only complaint about Michael’s otherwise impressive elementary school was that it was so small and exclusive that parents generally had no choice whether to participate in giving their “volunteer” time toward different events throughout the year. When Frederick’s wife Inelle had been PTA president, Hannibal hadn’t had an issue, but apparently the promise of monetary compensation was not enough to sway the other man.

Trying to keep busy by hounding parents that had additional long-standing responsibilities already in place was evidently the outlet Frederick chose to manage his own sorrows concerning his estranged wife.

The Pearson-Stoke Academy’s parental gossip mill was laughable at best, but the other parents at Michael’s school had provided a useful tidbit about Chilton’s currently strained relationship with his wife (soon-to-be-ex, Daniel Peterson had claimed), as she had taken the largest suitcase she could find and abandoned Frederick and their son August without so much as a _goodbye forever_ to tide them over during the inevitable breakdown that followed.

Poor, lonely Fred, all alone in that big house with no one to love him, trying to find something to do to take up that empty space Inelle made when she walked out.

_Empty house_ , Hannibal muses to himself, tongue running over his teeth. _Hmmmm_.

“I’m not married. That’s why my wife’s number is not in the school’s records,” he says smoothly, steamrolling over Frederick’s exaggerated gasp at the correction.

“Well, in any case, are you sure you can’t volunteer for the charity auction next weekend? There are still two parent slots open on the sign-up sheet.”

Hannibal opens his mouth to reply, but Frederick seems to think he is one step ahead of him, providing an alternative before Hannibal can reject his initial offer.

“Aaaand, even if you can’t, I’m sure Michael’s schedule isn’t quite as full. I mean, he’s in soccer, right? The same team as my August, if I remember correctly, but I’m sure it won’t hurt to miss just one Saturday practice, hm? I’ll write an excuse note to Coach Klein, hand-signed and everything. Michael would make such an adorable little usher at the auction!”

“We have a previous engagement,” Hannibal fibs, and promptly hangs up to Chilton’s outraged sputtering.

He doesn’t particularly mind being untruthful to those he considers beneath his notice, but an idea begins to coalesce in his mind nonetheless. Will had been surprisingly accommodating towards the children’s desires to spend time with one another, and had not backed away from today’s meeting, at which they would create the impression of being a complete family, even if it was merely to the casual onlooker taking their own child to the same superhero film.

It wouldn’t be too farfetched to consider that the boys’ initial entreaty for a sleepover could fulfilled in the near future, if Will agreed to it. With a preceding playdate conveniently scheduled during the same time as the PTA’s charity auction, of course. (Hannibal knew he’d receive a plethora of irritated voicemails in the coming hours, and it always helped to have a truthful excuse on hand. He couldn’t have Frederick catching Michael at school and his wide-eyed, honest boy telling Chilton that he’d love to help out because he had nothing to do next weekend.)

There were plenty of pursuits that would be hypothetically available to take up the next weekend, but having a third family reunion was the option he prized above all others, though he knew that the final decision would eventually fall to Will.

Knowing the other man, he would be skeptical of rushing into a sleepover with the inherent possibility of Hannibal barging into the home he’d built, and would scoff at the idea of Isaac spending any extended amount of time without him in the house he had once unsmilingly dubbed the Ripper’s Lair.

_These are obstacles, but you would not immediately bow to plan either, if you were in Will’s shoes. What else_?

If he capitulated to another meeting after today, Will would suggest dinner first. Something tame, something public. Less risk for individual interaction with Hannibal that way.

A child-themed restaurant, to be facetious.

Hannibal frowns to himself, able to smell the phantom scent of baby wipes and hear the obnoxious whistle of arcade games already.

No.

_I’ll have to convince him to come to a compromise instead._

Hannibal would work with what he had in order to explore the developing facets of Will that he had missed during their separation, but he’d prefer not to need to manage the sound of a hundred strangers’ children in the background as he did so.

He is so eager at the prospect of the improbability of their family spontaneously completing itself (only tendrils now, but perhaps it would eventually compose itself into something more permanent) due to a serendipitous accident that it nearly overcomes his earlier discomfiture at flicking through the news stories this morning and seeing a macabre tableau being attributed to him although it was not of his own making.

The different news outlets conflicted themselves on whether the Ripper or the copycat was responsible for the three killings this week, and Hannibal had been trying to contain his irritation since Wednesday night, after they’d returned home from the diner.

The murders were not sloppy or entirely inaccurate in form, but they were also not his, and he couldn’t have an intruder encroaching on the reputation he had so painstakingly maintained all these years.

_Perhaps that annoyance is why you were so quick to think of poor Chilton, defenseless in his empty home. Constructive stress release is one way to manage a problem_ , he smiles to himself, the barest hint of an idea peeking around the shelves in the Great Library of his mind. The idea wears a familiar face, her expression flickering between mischief and melancholy.

His feet, clumsy with old sorrows, try to keep up with her as she darts across the shelves faster than he can track, her laughter trailing behind.

_My beautiful sister, no longer locked in the places that would keep her safest. The teacup that I could not send crashing to the ground. The teacup that remained whole._

Hannibal may not wholly subscribe to the auspiciousness of omens, but as a child he remembered he had once wanted to, faithful in their power. No matter his current opinions, he can still respect their place in human tradition, lest this respect yield results in his favor.

_Anniba_ , his sister whispers to him, pausing at the end of a long stack of moldy tomes. The various familiarities of childhood register in his periphery—fairy tales, a calculus text, a book with a personalized message written in his mother’s hand—but he cannot tear his eyes away from her, their movements making no sound as she presses a single finger to her lips.

He crosses the space between them and kneels, so that he may see her expression better, but her face falls into blankness as she reaches towards his own, to brush her star-shaped hand along his cheek. It is perpetually midday in this place that will hold the sunlight as long as he wishes, and the glitter of her silver bracelet blinds him for a moment, and in this long second, she disappears.

His cheek is still warm when he blinks again, though instead of his sister’s touch, he feels a key, the weight of it unnaturally light in his palm.

Following her retreating shadow down a corridor he has never seen before, he walks the long hall until he spots the lock for his key, attached to a towering oak door with bronze fixtures. Inserting the key, he turns it until he hears a resounding click, and pushes the door inward. It groans lowly, but gives.

Stepping over the threshold, he finds himself in a large, white room, with a long line of empty shelves stretching up towards the high ceiling.

_I’ve seen this place once before_ , he thinks to himself, and grins.

 

 

 

His improved mood lasts about as long as it takes for Will to say the conventional hellos and wave encouragingly as he sends the boys off on their own to the nearby box office. In its entirety, about five minutes of friendly behavior, which is a paltry record in most cases, but an almost-success where they’re concerned.

“Just to be clear, I’m _pissed_ at you. I saw the headlines again this morning, and the only reason I didn’t call you to cancel was because Isaac was going stir crazy these last few days waiting to go out and see his brother again. And before you even think of offering me some homemade something or other to eat, you can take it and shove it up your—,” Will starts, dutifully falling silent as he watches the boys bounding back to them from the box office and back into hearing range.

Slapping a smile onto his face, he accepts the tickets from them with a genuine, “Thanks, babies,” and glares at Hannibal while the attendant returns their stubs and directs them to the furthest theater on the right.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Hannibal says, carefully vague, Will’s countenance cycling through surprise and even a bit of doubt beneath a hanging marquee’s neon lights. “And it’s poor etiquette to bring outside food into a movie theater, so don’t worry about homemade something-or-others, Will.”

“We’re talking about this later,” Will whispers, as the boys race off, each attempting to beat the other to the theater door.

“Try not to alarm the children with your attitude, darling,” Hannibal smirks, and watches in delight as Will struggles with the reflexive urge to hit him, jaw clenched and stance ready to lunge.

“I’ll show you _attitude_ , Hannibal Lecter,” he scoffs. “But you’re not worth getting arrested for disorderly conduct.”

“Or assault, more likely,” Hannibal continues to smile, alarmingly amused at Will’s next reply.

“Oh, honey, it wouldn’t stop at assault.”

“I could say the same to you,” Hannibal says lowly, something reptilian and dangerous lingering in his eyes, and Will clears his throat to stop himself from going any further in retaliation.

It would be a joke, if not for the fact that he’s sure Hannibal is currently fantasizing about the best way to kill him and store him for a more gradual dining experience. For old time’s sake, of course.

“Go watch the kids,” he croaks. “I’ll—I’ll get the popcorn. I don’t trust you’re not gonna buy every candy they can get their hands on, just to spite me.”

Hannibal’s smirk endures, with more than a hint of sharp canines this time.

_At least I’ve conquered that fear_ , Will thinks, grateful that the motion no longer looks to him like a shark baring its teeth.

 

 

 

“Whoa, that was awesome!” Isaac exclaims, to a handful of shushes from the back row. Will nearly rolls his eyes, then remembers that he can in the near-dark without being accused of poor parenting.

“I dunno what you’re so excited for. It’s a preview, not even the movie,” Michael points out, but Isaac is having none of it, popcorn flying out of his half-clenched fists in all directions as he makes high-pitched energy-ray sound effects.

Will tries to look over at Hannibal to enjoy the look of abject horror no doubt plastered onto his face, but is caught instead at the paternal affection radiating off the other man in waves, his eyes fixed on Isaac as if he’s some sort of impossible vision.

No testy _Time to quiet down, Isaac_. Nothing of the restrictive, Draconian parent Will anticipated Hannibal would be, even before considering his other massive shortcomings in the positive role model department.

“Hey, buddy, tell your kid to shut the fuck up,” a voice calls out in the dimness. _There it is_ , Will thinks, Hannibal’s expression not changing in the least, though Will feels a sudden chill creep up his spine. Bracing his own hands on the armrests, he tries to tell himself not to escalate the situation by leaping over the next row, finding that mouthy idiot, and giving him a piece of his mind before Hannibal can even get out of his chair.

No one should talk to any kid like that, much less _his_ kid.

“You’re the one making more noise than the kid, asshole,” a woman’s voice rejoins, to a scatter of laughter and a baby’s loud yelp, and Will leans back in his chair, grateful for how easily the budding Incident has been resolved, Hannibal’s eyes flickering away from the complainer, Will’s own irritation plummeting to a dull roar.

_You saved that guy’s life, lady_ , he thinks, then, _How could I think that we could ever be together sustainably, if Hannibal was automatically going to play judge, jury, and executioner at the earliest sign of trouble?_

Will would’ve taken the loudmouth outside himself if he needed to, but that idiot and everyone else would have left this place alive and stayed that way, far as he could help it. With Hannibal, though, he could never be sure.

He’d tried to be realistic, once upon a time. He knew that Hannibal didn’t kill every person who ever slighted him, but the very fact that there’d be a ready-and-waiting victim pool in plain sight on Hannibal’s desk, each one with a matching recipe in the box in the kitchen. It’d been too much.

Not like the kids would’ve ever pieced the truth together, even when they got older, but they’d both conceded to letting Will have plausible deniability.

_Would you ever ask me to stop_? Hannibal had asked him once, and Will had shaken his head.

If he’d even had to ask, it’d still happen again. Addicts only quit when they wanted to, not for anything or anyone else, and he’d been under no illusion that Hannibal’s hunting style was anything like an impulse or a choice. It’d become innate, like the color of his eyes, or the strength he used to cut people open while they fruitlessly fought to free themselves.

Hannibal had hardly ever come home with anything more serious than a stray bruise, Will remembered that. The culmination of a person’s entire life, reduced to a tiny blemish on his skin that would be soon to fade.

_How could I think I could ever love you_? he wonders, throat and chest tight as he sees Isaac leap at the sudden noise of the movie’s title sequence, his hand reaching out to clasp his brother’s arm, Michael leaning on Hannibal’s shoulder, Hannibal pressing a brief peck to their son’s crown.

_Because even monsters have a place in the world, and your place was supposed to be with me_.

Trying to shake off the thought, Will turns back to the movie and swallows around the lump in his throat, everything a fuzzy blur of color before his wet-rimmed eyes.

 

 

 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Daddy asks, and Michael nods his head, hoping he doesn’t look like an overeager baby when he looks up at Isaac’s Daddy— _Will, Daddy had said his name was Will_ —and says, “Maybe we can, maybe we can do it again next week?”

Will laughs, and Michael takes a few seconds to consider what he should call him. Uncle Will? No. Daddy? No, that’d get confusing. But Will _was_ his dad too…

“Next week?” Will says. “Two superhero movies in a row? That other one with the dinosaur villain just came out.”

Isaac scoffs. “No way, that one’s lame. Let’s stream something instead! I got Daddy to get Netflix last month,” he brags, and Michael hops excitedly.

“What? No way! Daddy says that I only need cable, we’d never get Netflix in a million years.”

“Are you depriving my kid, Hannibal?” Will asks wryly, and Hannibal realizes that he’s actually trying to extend an olive branch with the comment, not refusing a second get-together outright.

“Michael has accumulated enough _Rocket Robots_ DVDs to fill a department store warehouse,” Hannibal informs him, to prove that Michael is anything but deprived. Michael yips, betrayed look on his face. “ _Rocket Robots_ is for babies, Daddy,” he hisses, though his annoyance lessens when Isaac volunteers, “I still watch it, too.”

“Oh,” Michael hums. “Okay, that’s good.”

“Would dinner and another movie be an acceptable compromise?” Hannibal asks, finding himself holding the car door open for Isaac, then for a slightly peeved Will, who only accepts in order to avoid making a scene.

“Let’s go to Pizza Palace, they give you buffalo wings while you wait,” Michael suggests, and Will takes pity on Hannibal, biting his lip to keep from grinning at the telling twitch below Hannibal’s eye.

“How about we have dinner at your father’s house,” he says, before he can stop himself. Better going there than letting Hannibal anywhere near their home (which to Will’s knowledge, Hannibal did not know the location of). “You still live on Chandler?”

“Same address,” Hannibal says, and Will bets dollars to donuts he’s surprised at not being the first one to extend a more _intimate_ dinner invitation.

“Good,” Will sniffs. “We’ll have time to talk, then. Does next Saturday work? Five or six?”

“Next week Saturday. Five p.m.,” Hannibal says, and Will nods.

“Yessss,” Michael murmurs triumphantly to himself, Will noticing Hannibal’s lips quirk up to mirror his own at their son’s unabashed glee.

“So, what are you and Hannibal gonna talk about at dinner?” Isaac asks, peeking his head out of the opened driver’s door. Will pushes him back into his seat, mildly startled that he was paying attention to the “boring grown-up talk” he usually shuts out.

“About adult stuff, baby,” he says, and then arches a brow at Hannibal.

“You gonna close my door for me and let me get on my way?”

“I’m considering not,” Hannibal says, and leans down, Will stock-still at the brief sensation of Hannibal’s lips on his temple. “But I won’t keep you against your will.”

_Liar_ , Will thinks, skin prickling with heat. _Liar, liar, liar_.

 

 

 

“I know I said that we would talk,” Will says, through a mouthful of Isaac’s leftover mac-n-cheese, “but if they ever subpoena this phone transcript in court, I want it on record that I warned you we should discuss this in person, at _dinner_ , instead.”

“You were practically fuming about the supposed third Ripper killing this morning. It’s best not to let your anger fester,” Hannibal says, measured, and Will snorts.

“Well, pardon me for being _slightly_ steamed at pretending everything is totally fine when my kids are living in a city with a murderous egomaniac on the loose.”

“An egomaniac,” Hannibal says flatly.

“Yeah,” Will huffs. “Just a guess. But then you told me not to believe everything I hear.”

“You shouldn’t. I’m assuming you’ve been following the FBI’s updates on the Ripper copycat. And the likelihood that he could be responsible for some of the murders incorrectly attributed to the Ripper.”

Will may not have worked for the BAU any longer, but he could not deny an interest at masochistically picking at the scab left by his transfer. One of Hannibal’s favorite pastimes had been checking the FBI’s public website for updates about investigations concerning his own crimes, and Will—when they were together and even now—had fallen into a similar trap when the Ripper investigation had branched into its current two directions.

Old habits die hard, and though Will still doubted the usefulness of a copycat investigation, he had read up on the publicly, and not-so-publicly, available information on the subject.

_Hannibal, are you trying to persuade me that you’re not the one who’s been killing all those people the past year? It’s a little late to play the Good Dad card now._

The question comes off as almost playful in his mind, and Will bites the inside of his cheek to contain the heated self-disgust that rolls through him at the coquettishness in its tone. 

“I’ve talked to Heimlich about it a little,” he says, finally. “At the time, he thought Alana was reaching, but the Copycat’s made himself into a media commodity in no time flat. He and the Ripper are two sides of the same coin; can’t mention one without the other popping up somehow.”

_I know you, Hannibal, you’re trying to talk me in circles. Just don’t. I don’t want to hear you try to explain yourself. I made peace with who you are and what you do as much as I could a long time ago._

“They’re hardly equivalent, Will.”

He can hear the lividness in Hannibal’s voice, and suppresses a smile at it. Had the Copycat really been out there for a year, or was this Hannibal trying to lend credence to his own innocence?

Will sighs. “Look, you know as well as I do that if the BAU only got to the latest body this morning, it would be too early for anyone to officially call it a Ripper killing _or_ the work of a copycat without the necessary ‘pending further investigation’ disclaimer tacked onto the media release.

“I’ll give you that. It was bullshit what the reporters were saying about the body they found today. Not until the techs have gone through everything, the autopsy’s been fully documented, and Uncle Jack himself signs off on the work can anyone really say what’s going on. If they even have a definitive ‘what’ by then.”

Which would take days, weeks, or never, depending on what they could do with the evidence they had.

Hannibal listens to Will’s sudden verboseness with a growing amount of amusement, although he has to hold back a twinge of frustration at Will’s undecided opinion on the matter, no more willing to subscribe to Hannibal’s assertions in this case as he was to his profiling opinions when they had worked together, once upon a time.

He was always challenging others’ views, mostly to the benefit of said others, though Hannibal wished Will would just _listen_ this time.

He cannot explain his own actions (or lack of them) to the best of his ability if Will is not receptive to hearing his defense.

Their separation had been trying on both of them, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that any semblance of greater reconciliation was not going to happen tonight. His own honesty on the matter of the copycat murders would not be enough to convince William of anything—the other man had it in his head that Hannibal was a liar, or as good as one, out to promote selfish interests at the expense of others. And for the most part, he would be right, but Hannibal could not deny that spending the few hours he had in Will and Isaac’s presence had plucked at a particularly vulnerable heartstring.

In addition, Mischa’s abrupt return to his waking thoughts had invigorated as much as it unsettled him, and he wondered if the omen she had brought was actually one of suffering, rather than blessing. The empty white room called to him in its possibility as a blank canvas for his most complex work yet, but was it his doom or salvation contained within?

The truth of Mischa’s gift was yet to be seen, but next time he spoke to Will in person, he could attempt to sway the other man to his way of thinking. There were certain realities that Will could not deny. Having a full-time job and being single parent to a young child was not exactly conducive to being at his best whenever he donned the Ripper’s skin, and thus an undue risk where Michael was concerned. Will, smart boy that he is, would have accepted this outright were his view not clouded by his intense dislike of what Hannibal (now rarely) chose to do in his free time.

Whatever motivation behind Will’s indifferent behavior towards the concept of a copycat, Hannibal couldn’t let the other man continue to categorize him as one of the monsters they used to hunt together, not if he wanted to continue to see him or Isaac in the future.

_Hannibal_ knew he had not been the one to maim any of the bodies discovered this week, or remove whatever organs had been removed. But how to make Will see the very same?

“The last time I spoke with Alana Bloom, she was reasonably certain that the copycat existed, and had drawn up a companion profile so that they may be apprehended as well.”

“Alana Bloom is sweet, and smart as hell, but I think she’s blinded by ambition.” It makes Will bristle, that Hannibal thinks he can talk himself out of it now, going on a late-night harvest when he knew he was going to visit Isaac a few hours later.

But the internal voice warning him of Hannibal’s duplicitous nature is weakening, even now.

A detail that he is unable to ignore digs at him, the thorn in his side.

Hannibal killed in sounders of three, but he tended to space his slaughters because he was not gluttonous in his eating habits, and an overabundance of meat would not keep. The most recent killing on the news this morning had been the third _this week_.

If there really is a copycat on the loose, Will wonders if he’s worked out the gastronomy behind the Ripper’s seemingly random mutilations. That was a little tidbit they’d never released to the media.

“Aren’t we all,” Hannibal says gravely.

“Whatever’s really going on, I get your point, so you can get off your soapbox,” Will says. “Jack called in two additional sources to confirm, and the BAU says there’s a copycat. But I don’t have the evidence in front of me, I haven’t seen any of the crime scenes associated with either set of cases, and—.”

“Your talent for reading between the lines can be applied to the limited amount of evidence you’ve come into contact with, Will.”

Will snorts. _He just wants to hear me say it, make it seem like I’m proud of him for not being the one to make a public spectacle of himself using someone else’s entrails._

“Fine. If this copycat really exists, the Ripper wouldn’t be flattered by the imitation. That’s my unofficial opinion.”

Hannibal senses that Will is teetering on the fence of interest in continuing their conversation and exhaustion at the topic, so he doesn’t push. Forcing Will to do things had distressed Uncle Jack’s ulcers more than once, and he could imagine that his own health would not fare half as well if he didn’t back down, at least initially.

He won’t win if Will’s guard is constantly up, though he can’t resist one last jab at the copycat before he lets the subject drop.

“The Ripper has signed his name on many victims during his tenure here. This other creature hoping to emulate him is nothing but a cheap forgery.”

“I don’t know if I’d call him cheap. Their profiles would be similar enough. Affluent middle-aged male. Surgeon, or someone with anatomical knowledge and situational know-how to have honed his craft. Broken record, as far as I’m concerned. They haven’t caught either of them yet.”

_And they aren’t ever gonna catch you, if I can help it. Michael needs you, and I know you don’t want to trade a life with him for the inside of a prison cell_.

“Look, thanks for lettin’ me talk bull about the good ol’ times, but I’ve got a real office job now, and I’ve put every part of that behind me that I can afford, so please let me keep that.”

“Will—,” he starts, but Will doesn’t want to hear it. There are other ways for Hannibal to potentially influence him (God, even through his interactions with the kids), but he’s not going to sit here and talk in code until he’s blue in the face. He’s not going to give Hannibal that opportunity to get under his skin any more than he already has, copycat or no copycat.

“I don’t care who he is, just as long as he stays away from my kids.”

He realizes that this may be misconstrued in Hannibal’s freakish brain as giving his blessing to hunt down this other killer (if he does exist, and Hannibal’s not just trying to get another over on him), but so what.

One less evil in the world would be a good thing in his book.

“It’s late, and the walls are thin. I don’t wanna wake Isaac up. Goodnight, Doctor Lecter.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Hannibal is probably trying to untangle the ridiculous mess of why Will had even humored him this long, if he was only going to shut him down at the end of it.

And he could untangle all he wanted, but it would be difficult to find a reason why when Will admittedly didn’t even know himself.

_You didn’t just want to hear his voice. You didn’t just want to be the one to piss him off by stonewalling_ him _for a change_.

Lies Will can tell himself so often he’ll maybe believe them someday.

“Goodnight, Will,” Hannibal says, and then the dial tone drones, long, in Will’s ear.

It doesn’t feel as much like victory as Will thinks it should.

 

 

 

“Daddy’s asleep right now, but I think he was talking to your dad for a while before he went to bed. The noise woke me up. Do you think that means they’re gonna get back together?” Isaac whispers, curled up with the landline and one of his blankets on a dining room chair, the dimmer switch in the kitchen on the lowest setting.

Initially curious at the light and the quiet patter of Isaac’s feet, Winston now sits curled at his feet as Isaac reaches down to pet him with his foot.

“What do you mean get back together? I guess it depends on what they were talking about,” Michael replies.

“Remember in the car at the movies? Daddy said he was gonna talk to your dad about ‘adult stuff’.”

“He’s your dad, too, dummy,” Michael is quick to reply. “Don’t you wanna know what he means by ‘adult stuff’. Like, what do adults know that we don’t? They don’t know how to have fun, that’s for sure. Daddy still hasn’t talked about buying my Power Rangers yet.”

“Shut up about your stupid Power Rangers, Mike! I think ‘adult stuff’ means they like each other! On all those old people shows on TV, people call each other on the phone and get that googly eyed look on their faces when they like someone.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, Isaac!” Michael parrots, in the same tone, though instead of having its intended effect, Isaac starts to laugh. “I don’t think Daddy has googly eyes for Will.”

He doesn’t know what “old people” TV shows Isaac is talking about—they’re not any TV shows that Michael watches—but he thinks of some of the older kids at school, how they sat together and held hands and pretended to kiss like adults did, and grimaces.

_Yuck_. No, that wasn’t like Michael’s Daddy at all.

“Whatever. I think they got googly eyes,” Isaac insists.

“Well, if they like each other, why’d they ever go apart?” Michael asks. “Cuz you’re supposed to get married or at least live together if you like someone.”

“You’re not _supposed to_ , you can if you want,” Isaac clarifies, sighing into the phone. “I wish they lived together earlier, so I coulda gotten to know you and kept you from being so lame.”

“Hey!” Michael protests. “I’m not lame, you’re lame!”

“You so are lame!”

“You keep calling me lame, and I’ll tell Daddy I don’t wanna go to dinner next weekend!”

Isaac is silent for so long Michael thinks he might have hung up.

“I—Please don’t tell him that. I wanna see you guys,” Isaac says eventually, voice very soft.

“Oh, uh,” Michael struggles. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Sucker!” Isaac giggles suddenly, so loud that Michael has to hold his ear away from the phone.

“Hey! Shut up, you idiot, Daddy’s gonna hear!”

“You didn’t wait until he went to sleep?”

“I dunno, he doesn’t have a bed time, he’s a grownup! But he probably doesn’t wanna hear how you think he’s got _googly eyes_ for Will.”

“I did mean it, though,” Isaac says later, when they’ve both calmed down a bit after another argument about which Saturday morning cartoons were the best. “I do wanna see you guys this weekend. It’s always just me and Daddy and the dogs. Sometimes people Daddy knows from work come around, but it’s weird having other people around that I actually like.”

“You don’t have any friends from school?”

Isaac snorts. “Tons. But I always go to their houses, so I can just eat all the food and play all the video games and not have to clean up the mess.”

Michael, who had never looked at it like that, thinks this is a brilliant idea. Whenever he has friends from soccer over, Daddy or Gina always make him help in cleaning up the food wrappers and toys, and put away the pop-up goals in the backyard.

“Maybe I’ll try that next time, going over to someone else’s house.”

“Just not ours, I don’t wanna clean up after you. But, I mean, I can get you an invite over to Matt’s birthday party, I guess. Everyone’ll freak when they find out I have a twin.”

“Does Matt like Power Rangers?”

“Stop with the Power Rangers, Mike!”

Michael is so caught up in his conversation with his brother that he does not hear the creak of the floorboards, or see his father’s shadow lingering in the hall, Hannibal taking an amused note of all he hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re so mean to each other :p ... Wonder where they get that from.


	3. Next Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abel Gideon, world’s most terrible talk therapy patient, introduces himself in a big way.
> 
> Everyone has a nice family get-together, until the parents have an argument during dinner prep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning here for Abel Gideon being a cannibal and disrespecting his wife. What he did to her in canon, he does to her in this fic (in more detail here). Nothing in this fic will be much worse than canon (at least from my POV), but I’m marking violence in the warnings, just to be safe.

“I realize there’s no need to beat a dead horse, but I’m paying, so I think I have a right to bring it up again,” Abel Gideon says, and sighs deeply, as if he truly has the capacity to feel pain about his chronic redundancy in complaining about his family.

Most of Hannibal’s patients in recent years tended to be mentally healthy individuals convinced they were otherwise, but occasionally, he was presented with an unconventional source of entertainment in individuals like Gideon. The man had been his patient nearing six months now, and had talked about nothing save different iterations of how much he hated his wife and how wonderful it would be if she had a tragic accident so that he could collect on a million-dollar insurance policy he had taken out in her name.

He knew the type Gideon was, and had scoffed at the unnecessary bit about the insurance policy, knowing that the other man would eventually do what he purported he wanted to do for free. The man was constantly peacocking about how violent his thoughts towards her had become, but why?

Was he trying to impress Hannibal at his deviancy from socially acceptable thoughts about a supposed loved one, or was something more sinister at work in their interactions?

Hannibal had not survived this long free and uncaptured by throwing caution to the wind, but surely Gideon wasn’t _really_ a threat.

 _Oh, yes, surely Gideon’s not the copycat_ , a blunt voice whispers to him, that of his childhood tutor, Mr. Jakov. Hannibal’s mouth flattens at how dryly the old man’s tone rings in his ear.

Gideon catches his displeased expression, and misinterprets it as a lack of interest. So, naturally, he tries to make himself a point of interest by becoming even more effusive on the subject, volume increasing to fill the entirety of the space provided him.

“I really don’t think my martial problems are going to resolve themselves without me taking some sort of _drastic action_. Professional courtesy, doctor-to-doctor, what do you think I should do? We both know I’m _extremely_ susceptible to side effects, so medication’s a big no-no, and those breathing exercises you recommended just gave me the time to formulate even better ideas of how to dismember her cleanly and get away with it.”

Hannibal watches Gideon stalk around his office as if he owns it, though the other man remembers himself at the last moment, refraining from touching the antlered statue near the library ladder and curling the nearly-offending hand into a loose fist instead.

“You should sit down, Abel. Gather your thoughts. Center in on the true source of your irritation with your wife.”

Gideon faces him, arms behind his back. His jacket is rumpled today, with an odd, red-brown spatter on it that Hannibal suspects remains there to taunt him.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever said this before, but I really like you. You’ve never told me to stop sharing, even when I got into the nasty bits about what I wanted to do with her spine when it was all over.”

“It’s not my job to judge you,” Hannibal says, honestly, though Gideon’s violent fantasies were quite inventive at times, even for his tastes. “And as you said before, it would be an ingenious way to hide your wife in plain sight, displaying her remains in your office. No one would think twice about a talented surgeon having an extra anatomical model in his possession.”

Gideon begins to pace in earnest across the carpet near the windows, instead of accepting the very politely-phrased order to take a seat, wagging his finger as if Hannibal is a particularly beloved nephew interrupting an important lecture, rather than his psychiatrist.

 _Oh, you_ , the gesture says.

 _Oh, me_ , Hannibal thinks, half in amusement, half in annoyance. Gideon always enjoyed beating around the bush.

 _Constant attempts at theatricality_ , Mr. Jakov whispers to him. _Reminiscent, is it not_?

“No, no, the last idiot I saw for therapy—no offense meant to the very honorable specialty, of course—would try to _redirect my feelings_ and _reign in my desires_. Nearly got the police involved when I went a little too far. In jest, obviously, about baking my wife into a chicken pot-pie to serve to the in-laws.”

Pleased with himself, Gideon snaps his fingers a moment later.

Eureka.

 _Hallelujah_ , Hannibal thinks, mentally struggling to keep his eyes open. Would that Gideon would admit to being the Copycat; at least their current session would become exponentially more stimulating.

“That’s the source of my anger towards my wife! This week’s source, at least. See, Thanksgiving’s coming up in a while, and she told me, very casually, nothing at all to be worried about, that the in-laws had invited themselves over to dinner. Of course, this means not just the in-laws, but their other devil spawn as well. She has six brothers and sisters, you know, and each one of them has at least one child.”

“Counting your two children, that means at least eighteen at your dinner table. Is paying for reasonably-priced, pre-cooked meals not an option?”

“Ha-ha,” Gideon says wryly. “You know, it’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing. She’s violated my authority by bringing this heap of responsibility on me, without asking first. I wouldn’t have a problem if she would have just asked, and I had the opportunity to say that she could have the in-laws _or_ the siblings, but if she invited both, someone would be leaving in little pieces I’d pack oh-so-nicely into a doggy bag.”

Hannibal crosses his legs at the ankle, part of him retreating to his memory palace, where the programming’s a bit more interesting than another well-rehearsed monologue featuring a classically disgruntled spouse. Whatever masks Gideon wore to conceal himself (if there indeed was anything of substance behind this tedious façade), it seemed he was not quite ready to remove them this session.

 _Don’t resign yourself to a decision without proof of Gideon’s innocence or guilt. The hour’s not over yet_.

“You’ve always had a tendency to violent thoughts in inappropriate situations. That is why the hospital recommended you for sensitivity training, and then to see a psychiatrist. You’re an excellent surgeon, Abel, and haven’t done anything to merit another conduct review. But I’ve noticed you’ve escalated in your use of different euphemisms for cannibalism recently, particularly focused on your wife.

“Has this always been a part of your fantasies, or is this a developing trait?”

Gideon has apparently been waiting for him to ask this question, as he finally ceases his wandering and takes a seat. Hannibal frowns at the choice—behind his drawing desk near the dying fire.

“You know, it’s only cannibalism if you’re eating someone you consider to be equal to you. I prefer the term anthropophagy, if we’re still talking about my wife,” Gideon says, flicking carelessly through Hannibal’s sketches and landing on one in particular that makes his eyes go exaggeratedly wide.

“Oh, Intro to Emergency Medicine, I remember this one,” he drawls. “I couldn’t understand, after all these years, why they never updated this thing to exclude the medieval club. Not as if they’re an easy weapon to get your hands on nowadays.

“Well, I suppose it’s the thought that counts. Be prepared to address any injury at any time. But I must say, this one does remind me of a case in the news. It’s been a few years, but I think I remember the name.

“Olmstead, right? Jeremy Olmstead.”

“You’ll have to refresh my memory,” Hannibal says, and watches as the residual warmth of the fire gradually causes Gideon to perspire.

What he sees in this observation is a physiological need to sweat in order to temperature regulate rather than psychological arousal associated with fear or stress. Hannibal knows it well, deduces that Gideon is intending to imply what he is implying and entirely comfortable in this wordless confrontation.

After all these months of dancing around the issue, masquerading at being just another mundane patient without distinctiveness or hope of resolution, Gideon is exactly where he wants to be.

Six months as a patient, six more months borrowing the Ripper’s esteem for his own, Hannibal thinks, resisting the urge to gnash his teeth.

It hardly matters what triggered Gideon’s boldness to manifest on this day rather than any other, but Hannibal has a prickling feeling along the back of his neck that means he’s been the one held under the microscope all this time, and it _burns_.

You study your enemy, you discover means of how to beat him.

Had his other responsibilities as Michael’s father made him blind to the safety measures he used to take effortlessly and without a second thought? How had Gideon found him?

No, now was not the time to think of such things. Thoughts of his son did not belong in a place where he would need to be free of distraction.

 _He is entirely dependent upon you, and if anything ever happens to Will, you will be all he and Isaac have left_.

No. Focus.

_Office. Gideon. Gideon at my desk. Gideon with his hands on things that belong to me._

And there, the fire’s heat freeing a few of those rust-colored particles from his patient’s clothes, the scent blooming throughout the room.

Deodorant, nitrile, a wife’s perfume, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

Gideon has his hand on the drawing table scalpel, and Hannibal reaches for the ceramic knife he usually disguises as a letter opener on his main desk.

“My, my, my,” Gideon drawls. “The Chesapeake Ripper, in the flesh. After all this time, we finally meet.”

Face blank and mentally preparing himself for the possibility of a prolonged brawl, Hannibal doesn’t waste words as he launches himself across the room.

 

 

 

“Stressful week at the office?” Will asks, touching Hannibal’s face wearing an expression of concern, but in truth using the proximity to dig his thumb into the butterfly-bandaged wound on Hannibal’s cheek.

Hannibal doesn’t flinch, though he does silently approve of his boy’s flagrant attempt at sadism.

 _I’ve found my copycat_ , he wants to boast, though his self-congratulation rings hollow when he thinks of the fact that Gideon had been the one to find him first. _He’s been my patient for six months, the copycat for a year, and likely an opportunistic murderer for much longer than he’s risen to fame using my title. We had a disagreement last session when he so blatantly attempted to don my mantle and spat at me when I didn’t applaud him as expected, or fall beneath his blade._

Then, an unexpectedly sentimental addendum that has nothing to do with reclaiming his infamous name, though he can’t deny it was part of his motivation for stealing his patient’s freedom.

_You no longer have to worry about another violent egomaniac plaguing defenseless victims anymore. Abel Gideon will be reduced to nothing soon enough._

“An unruly patient,” he says truthfully. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” Will leaps to defend himself, turning from washing vegetables in the sink to catch Michael with eerie precision as he sprints into the kitchen, his brother hot on his heels. “No running in a room where you’re surrounded by _fire and knives_.”

“Hey, the real knives are in the stand thingy, and the stove’s not even on,” Isaac protests, but schleps himself over to the island where two cutting boards and two child-safe plastic knives are waiting. Stepping up on the short stool that Michael digs out from under a cabinet, he glares at a bundle of bok choy and declares, “This is lame.”

“That’s just cuz you’re afraid of using a knife. It’s not even a _real_ knife,” Michael taunts, which of course serves as the perfect catalyst to make Isaac spring into action.

“Well, it’s still sharp,” Will points out. “Remember you cut yourself with those safety scissors last year, that can happen with this, so keep your fingers tucked in how your Dad showed you.”

The mistake slips out before he can mentally correct himself ( _Hannibal, that’s his name, not Dad, not Daddy, no way he was going to take that from me, too_ ), and Will looks over to the sink to see if Hannibal had caught that. Still diligently clearing the sink of the few rotten vegetable leaves and running the disposal to boot, Hannibal seems not to be paying much attention.

Fleetingly considering whether that “unruly patient” had left any other so-far unseen wounds, Will swallows the disturbing thought of what could have had the strength to hurt Hannibal. If such a person was still alive, Hannibal wouldn’t be, and he tries to reassure himself that this means the patient is either getting the help they need or, well…

Shaking himself, he turns back to the more important task of helping his kids with their knifework.

Will guides Isaac’s hand for the few seconds his son lets him, though Michael taking off and chopping his own bok choy into neat chunks spurs Isaac on to complete a reasonable imitation without Will’s help, Hannibal nodding his approval as he reaches over to help Isaac force the knife through the vegetable’s tough base.

“Daddy lets me cut stuff with a butter knife at home sometimes, but we usually don’t gotta do vegetables,” Isaac confesses. “He buys ‘em frozen, or he gets those TV dinners I like.”

Hannibal, to his credit, doesn’t start scolding him about nutritional deficiencies in Isaac’s diet, and this earns him brownie points enough that when the kids are playing in the living room waiting for dinner and they’re cleaning up in here, Will decides he won’t lead with probing questions about the fate of that _unruly patient_.

“Do we have the bleach wipes for when we’re finished with the chicken?” Hannibal asks, and Michael rushes to the opposite counter to produce them, proudly declaring, “Here, Daddy!”

Will’s struck, for a long second, by the pure undercurrent of love in Michael’s voice. From what he’s figured out in his limited interactions with the other half of his family, Michael might have been a little spoiled, Hannibal a little too busy or too tried by conflicting life demands (however much a person like Hannibal could be tried) from the reality of being a single parent to always pay the best attention, but they cared about each other. Completely and _mutually_ , the latter nearly like a sucker punch to Will’s gut once he realizes that maybe he’d been wrong.

Whether Hannibal had truly intended to be a good parent or grown into it, Will would never know, but instead of Hannibal going the vindictive route, he’d raised a generally good kid who brought out whatever traces of it was left in him, just how Will had hoped.

Will had allowed Michael to stay with his father because he didn’t want to be responsible for the bloody consequences of Hannibal’s broken heart had he merely taken both the kids and fled without a word. He’d known by then in graphic detail that there were two basic types of predators in the world: those that moved on to other victims, and those that didn’t. He didn’t want the boys living constantly in fear that one night they would wake up to find their murderous boogeyman of a father tapping at their bedroom window.

Because Hannibal would’ve found them; there would’ve been nothing save an act of God to keep him from them, the look in his eyes when Will had first told him the news still enough to bring tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat.

 _Mischa_.

Hannibal had told him that name, told him that he would be a better father to the twins than he had been to his sister, and the raw scratch of his voice whilst saying it had promised Will the world.

 _Too bad his world was a perfect nightmare of his own making_.

Whatever small, optimistic part of Will had escaped the jadedness borne of experience had secretly hoped that his ex would find with Michael a choice to redeem himself, even in some small way. He’d accepted that Hannibal would do his best, and justified tearing their family in half by all the lives he would save and the bloodshed he’d prevent.

But from what he saw now, some quiet miracle very well may have happened, odds against it be damned. Hannibal was still a killer, but he had not allowed the darkness in him to transform him into something that their children would have to fear.

“Thank you, darling,” Hannibal smiles at Michael, and Will shivers, remembering when Hannibal used to call _him_ endearments like that. Had called him that once again, at the movie theater.

“I’m gonna get a beer,” he announces needlessly, voice thick.

“Middle shelf. It’s imported. You can check the seal if you’re worried about any special ingredients.”

Will snorts, and hopes that little jab goes right over the kids’ heads.

“You want one?” he asks, to be polite, surprised when Hannibal says, “Yes, thank you.”

Well, it _was_ imported.

 _It’s not like he went out and got it special for you, or anything_.

“Okay, are we gonna start dinner or just stand around staring at each other till it’s time to go home?”

“Daaaddy, don’t be silly,” Isaac complains, helping his brother stack the bok choy into a pan drizzled with oil.

Hannibal slices the packaging on the organic, free range chicken breast on the counter, as if to say, _See, I can eat non-human meat if I choose to._

Will scoffs to himself.

“Oh, no, you’re not making me do the grunt work here,” he says.

“I insist. I’m going to prepare a marinade of my own devising, and we’ll share the work.”

Regardless of the token protest—Will does actually know how to prepare chicken and cook a mean batch of it fried, which Hannibal knows—their banter has taken on a friendlier tone and who is Will to say they shouldn’t, as long as it didn’t get out of hand.

Twenty minutes later, everything is either cooking down on the stove or in the oven, and Hannibal releases the kids to the living room to play while they wait. They’re gone in the blink of an eye, but Will stays, washing up their prep dishes and throwing away the foam and plastic wrap that’d held the chicken.

A quiet yap to signal his arrival, and Jove wanders in from wherever he’d been (the entire house seems to be his domain, Will thought to himself, tickled by it). The Doberman snuffles loudly at the floor, letting out a brief whine when he realizes that nothing’s dropped for him to eat, and Will bends down with his wet hands to give the dog a consoling pat.

“Hey, cutie, it’s okay now,” he shushes, and Jove playfully butts his head against Will’s calf and flees to Hannibal, who smiles at him and continues to wipe the counter free of food remnants with the bleach wipes Michael had brought out earlier. Will tries not to watch the distracting flex of the muscles in his arm as he does so.

He laughs through his nose as Jove gets bored with his inattentive owner and scampers off again.

Returning to the sink, Will struggles with himself about how to open the Important Conversation they need to have.

Despite his earlier promise not to lead with the elephant in the room, the cut on Hannibal’s face is severe enough that Isaac had asked repeatedly what it had come from when they’d first arrived at the house, unsatisfied with Hannibal’s cryptic replies until Michael had drawn him away from the conversation to show him the new action figures Hannibal had gifted him as an early birthday present.

“The unruly patient that gave you that cut, did he have good reason to?”

“You don’t need to be afraid of another Randall Tier, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hannibal says evenly, Will feeling something settle low and sickly in his stomach at the memory of the murders Hannibal’s former patient had committed (at his therapist’s encouraging, of course, though he’d never reveal his benefactor to the FBI interviewers that grilled him for days).

That irrefutable connection between an animalistic murderer and trustworthy psychiatrist Doctor Lecter, regardless of what Tier said or didn’t say, should’ve been a clue even Uncle Jack couldn’t have been dense enough to miss. But still, Hannibal walked free.

“You know what they say about bears and their cubs, Hannibal. If he’d tried anything with us, Randall would’ve ended up the one afraid of _me_ ,” he says, having gotten through washing the cutting boards and the knives. He’s holding the last one, made of seamless carbon steel, in his palm right now.

“Ah,” Hannibal says, approvingly. “Nonetheless, you don’t need to waste any time thinking on the patient that injured me. He’s currently indisposed, and will continue to be for as long as he remains with us.”

Only because he is absolutely sure the kids can’t hear, Will asks, stacking the knives neatly in the drying rack, “Where are you keeping him? You better not say ‘here’.”

“At a secure, undisclosed location,” Hannibal says, thinking of the drive back up to the house on the cliff, knowing it will be worth it, if all the rest in the coming weeks goes to plan.

It was quietly terrifying, how far he was willing to go in order to (hopefully) bring their entire family back together again, but knowing Will the way he did, the benefits far outweighed the risks.

“Far away from here?”

“Far enough,” Hannibal says, and thinks of the inconsistency and trouble with frames of reference when it came to time. Now, what he says is the truth, but soon enough, it will be a lie.

The East tends to believe that time is circular, rather than linear, and Hannibal thinks that very philosophy could have predicted this moment. Will standing in his kitchen, the two of them having a beer. Will staring at him now, reluctant and wetting his lips. Wanting something he is not supposed to want, despite the counterintuitive fact that this person is also the father of his children.

“I didn’t go far,” he says, apropos of nothing, apparently still undergoing some inner turmoil as he shuts off the water and turns away from the sink, face twisted in a jumble of emotions, too many for even Hannibal to accurately name. “You can blame me for a lot of things, but I didn’t leave Baltimore. I couldn’t—Maybe someday, I thought our boys could be together again. I didn’t trust you, but I trusted you with Michael, because I knew, deep down, you loved him, and that wouldn’t change just because I stopped myself from being with you.”

“I wanted Isaac to stay,” Hannibal says. “I wanted you both to stay, although you thought it was impossible at the time.”

“ _At the time_?” Will says, his voice building. “God, Hannibal, you don’t get it! At the time? No—then, now, always. As long as you—As long as you’re you, all I can hope for is that you don’t get yourself caught and Michael doesn’t have to grow up without another father.”

“I only wanted,” Hannibal starts, but Will is furious now, and won’t let him continue. Hurt and genuinely astounded, that Hannibal cannot see the obvious.

“That’s your problem, Hannibal, you want, you want. You’re like a child that never grew up! You can’t just resort to killing things when people don’t live up to your ridiculous expectations of politeness.”

“I may be a child in your eyes,” Hannibal smiles sadly. “But you have no right to judge my behavior, Will. How could you offer me even a third of what I desired—the nuclear family I lost, reunited again—and not expect that I would crave more? You call me a child, you call me greedy, but you are nothing but a _tease_.

“You give me a fraction of what you could, only what you think is appropriate or convenient for you, knowing it can never be more. Instead of allowing me to cut my losses, you string me behind you, begging for scraps.”

“Because you can’t accept anything else than _everything_ , at whatever cost! You think companionship is toothless; you think love’s a waste of time. Won’t settle for anything less than _communion_ , and you and I both know that communion requires blood.

“But I can’t be what you are, no matter if I wanted to be or not.”

“Because you are good, and I am evil,” Hannibal sneers. “And it’s as simple as that.”

“Simple as that,” Will chokes out, muscle memory and common sense telling him to flee, but he’s come too far to run from the devil with his tail between his legs.

So much for Hannibal turning his outlook around.

_But you baited him, you can’t say you didn’t. Hard to blame him when you were the one who bit first._

“Oven timer’s beeping, I better get it before it burns.”

“I will take care of dinner. Show the boys to the dining room,” Hannibal says, voice flat and cordial as if Will hadn’t just ripped out his heart all over again.

“Fine,” Will says, without heat, and takes a long, desperately needed pull of his beer.

 

 

 

“Whaddaya mean we can’t sleep over?” Isaac pouts, and Will sighs, so past not in the mood.

“We agreed to dinner and a movie. We’ve had dinner, which was delicious, by the way, did you thank your father? And we streamed a movie, so now it’s time to go.”

“You drank alcohol!” Isaac points out.

“I had a beer,” Will sighs again. “One beer.”

“I can call a cab.”

“I’ve got the Book-A-Ride app on my phone. I’ll take another one to get the car back tomorrow night,” Will decides, drained from their little mutual blow up in the kitchen and letting his mouth run on autopilot, hoping it doesn’t say anything else even more idiotic than calling the Chesapeake Ripper an overgrown child.

Did he have some sort of a death wish?

“I like ordering the car, can I?” Isaac asks, and snatches Will’s phone away to show his brother before Will can say yes or no.

Kids.

“I’ll get your jacket,” Hannibal says, because this is the kind of huge house that has an entire closet, not just a cheap three-screw rack by the door, and Will’s thoughts circle back to the nuclear family Hannibal had just mentioned in the kitchen. Did they always live in splendor like this, or was Hannibal really a fellow poor kid overcompensating for the things he never had as a child?

Though Will had heard general details about the struggles Hannibal had to go through after the death of his parents, he had not pressed as much as he should have.

_You don’t want to examine his pathology, you’re just too curious for your own good. Nothing academic about wanting to be with a monster when you’ve already peeled back its human skin._

“Thanks,” he says numbly, as Isaac reluctantly gives up the phone and surprises everyone by hugging Michael and then Hannibal goodbye.

“I want a sleepover next time,” he says, very solemnly, to Will. “Aren’t you gonna hug them, too?”

The last thing Will wants right now is to hug Hannibal, but he takes Michael in his arms and squeezes till Michael taps at his biceps and mock-squeals, “Help, Daddy! Will won’t let me go.”

“That’s right, squirt,” Will says, trying not to let his voice waver. Steeling himself, he nevertheless shivers at the brief touch of Hannibal’s hand at his nape. “Night, Hannibal.”

“Goodnight, Will,” he says, leading them outside, and not leaving the front stoop until he’s sure they’ve gotten into their Book-A-Ride car and are pulling away.

Will needs to pretend, for his mental health, that he doesn’t crane his neck back in order to watch Hannibal go back in and the porch light go out, but he’s not fooling anybody. Especially not Isaac, who tugs on his sleeve to get his attention.

“Hannibal seems pretty okay,” he says, which is about as subtle as his kid will ever get, Isaac-code for _I like him and I think you like him, too._

 _Liking him is not the problem_ , Will thinks to himself. _Liking him too much in spite of things would be more like it._

_Even after that blowup in the kitchen, you know you’re going to give him another chance._

“Hmm,” he says, not rejecting, not agreeing, and Isaac, for once, leaves it alone.

Thank God.

“So, are we gonna do dinner and a movie and then something else new next week?” he hears his son say, over the driver’s AM radio baseball commentary blaring from the speakers near his ear. “Cuz we did a movie the first week, then dinner and a movie now…”

“We’ll see, baby,” he says, hoping against hope that some circumstance will strike Hannibal from the face of the earth so they’ll never have to go back to that house again. So that Michael can finally be back with them, where he belongs.

 _If wishes were horses_ , he thinks, streetlights passing over and casting Isaac into alternating strips of light and shade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff next chapter, to make up for the angst.

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, this is a small detail that irked me about this chapter: most places do not have sinks or bathroom fixtures low enough that young children can get to without help, but let’s just say they had stepstools cuz meeting at the cashier was slightly more romantic than the parents running into each other with the smell of urinal cake in the background.


End file.
